


drive me mad (madly in love with you)

by Ceryna



Series: drive me mad (sakuatsu) [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoos, M/M, Motorcycles, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Sexual Tension, Tattoo AU, and a motorcycle, atsumu is suffering, author is back on her bs metaphors!!!, beware some visceral metaphors, but especially pining atsumu, kiyoomi has tattoos, when the whole fic is elaborately disguised foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: >>> sakuatsu week day three, tier one || mouths//marksAtsumu's midlife crisis arrives early, in the form of tattooed motorcycle god Sakusa Kiyoomi.Edit 10/11/20: now with art!!by @newttxtandby @moonjamvibeson twt!
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: drive me mad (sakuatsu) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688023
Comments: 34
Kudos: 489
Collections: SakuAtsu Week 2020





	drive me mad (madly in love with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pseudoanalytics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/gifts), [A_Sirens_Lullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Sirens_Lullaby/gifts), [painpackerrisingsun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/painpackerrisingsun/gifts).



> this idea grew from a brainworm of putting Kiyoomi on a motorcycle, which spun into riding one being another form of exposure therapy-turned-hobby. but unlike volleyball, which is a public aspect of Kiyoomi’s life - this is kept under wraps. Until… well. You’ll see.
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU TO Quip, for being my accomplice to this au- tolerating me yelling about it and dropping sneak peeks because my writing brain could not be contained in the confines of my small, mortal body.
> 
> additional thanks to Siren for helping me bring this concept to life, and to the discord for sprinting alongside me as i worked through this monster.
> 
> and a final thank you to Ginny, for helping get this idea off the ground when i first got it a few months back. from then, it has morphed into this. i can only blame my brain. 
> 
> **before we start, a disclaimer:** while research was attempted for this, i have not driven a vehicle in Japan or touched a motorcycle at any point, so some road directions and things are probably wrong. shoutout to youtube and my imagination for filling in the gaps!
> 
> **finally, a WARNING:** by visceral metaphors, i mean references to the sensation of choking that appear in a sentence or two throughout the story. 
> 
> that all being said - please enjoy my first attempt at Atsumu POV!! & if you'd like some mood music, you can find my short themed playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1GiAcuVhDf7AU4g0M4Y7dM?si=GXYnSP6KRV-rks44smqgeg).

Atsumu feels the moment his lungs stop working. 

He’s frozen in the Black Jackals' locker room as the earth tilts on its axis, gravity dragging him off the surface and into a black hole.

He isn't sure whether he gasps as the oxygen tangles in his lungs, shock clutching his heart in steel claws as his mind spins like a record player on fast forward– scratching with bits of thoughts spluttering out round and round the needle.

A needle, not unlike the one that dove deep into Kiyoomi's skin to illustrate it with a tattoo.

One of Atsumu's hands curls into a fist that he brings to his mouth, as if to mask a cough. 

He's been blessed– _cursed,_ rather, with a glance at the skin behind Kiyoomi's left ear. The fair porcelain, which he expected to be dark with glossy curls, is bare– save for thin lines of sharp obsidian.

Atsumu bites his lip. He didn't see the whole design. Just the half that became visible for a split second as Kiyoomi raked his towel through his hair, creamy white offsetting the strands enough to reveal a vaguely geometric cut diamond. Half a jewel engraved with ink that leaves Atsumu with too many questions–

_What is it, when did Omi get it, what’s it mean, how did he manage it? Surely it must've hurt–_

But right now, _Atsumu_ is the one reeling back in pain– a stinging, throbbing erupts in his chest, like he's just sprained something–

He doesn't think it’s possible to sprain his heart, but that's how this forbidden knowledge weighs on him. Insistent. Splintery. Unable to be ignored. 

Kiyoomi's locker swings shut, the clink of metal startling Atsumu's lungs into working again. His eyes narrow at Atsumu, mouth dipping into a frown. "What?" he bites out, hands digging reflexively into the towel around his shoulders– a towel that’s been keeping secrets. 

Only then does Atsumu realize he's been staring for longer than is decent– but Atsumu wouldn't describe himself as _decent._ No, he strives for perfection, and while that’s often lost to the indecency of words falling from his mouth without his brain’s permission, even he knows to tread carefully with this crumb of gold he's unwittingly been gifted. 

"'S nothin', Omi-kun," he lies right through a devilish grin. It's an art perfected after years of living with Osamu– years of pranks and deceit to embody the fine edge of a sense of security, tipping the scales toward _false._ Saying one thing while meaning another– double entendres, mischief and misdirection make up a facade of jade to hide the storm of jagged, black diamonds glittering beneath. 

Kiyoomi glares at him some more, left eyebrow rising just a fraction and his frown curling into a grimace that Atsumu wants to bite off. _With his mouth. Softly._ But Kiyoomi simply shoulders his sports bag, leaving his towel looped around his neck, and brushes his hair behind his right ear– momentarily displaying dots and lines far too dark to be moles or hair. 

Atsumu curls his free hand around his thigh, branding crescents into it outside of Kiyoomi's view. He rests his forehead against his own locker– but the sensation of cool metal against his skin doesn't relax him. No, it only makes him more aware of the fever creeping over the back of his neck and under his fingernails, making his jaw clench in damp heat.

A fever that rewrites his every waking thought of Kiyoomi, every slumbering dream of Omi calling him _Atsumu_ with swirls of onyx waiting to be uncovered, admired, _tasted_ –

"Miya."

Atsumu sighs. His brain is doing a piss-poor job of leaving those thoughts for when he’s sleeping. So he leans away from his locker and looks up, growling "Wha',” before the oxygen is hijacked from his still-shuddering lungs, the black hole's gravitational pull growing even stronger.

Kiyoomi is decked out in high-topped sneakers, slim-fitting grey jeans– that are doing _wonders_ for his bony ass– and a black leather jacket zipped all the way up to the collar. The leather isn't embellished with any patterns. It's simply and cleanly paneled, seams dividing swaths of glossy fabric over Kiyoomi's chest and biceps.

_I wanna fuck ‘im in that jacket._

"Oh, you missed it earlier!" Bokuto chimes in from somewhere off to Atsumu's left. "Kiyoomi-kun rode his motorcycle in today!"

All noise in Atsumu's head whites out to static at _motorcycle._

His brain, ever so helpful, corrects his earlier statement to _I want ‘im to fuck me in tha’ jacket, on the motorcycle._

"Do you want to see?" Kiyoomi's face is ever-impassive as he asks a question that threatens to embellish every detail of Atsumu's fantasies. But his cheeks shift under his mask, tugging his right one just a tad more forward, baring a hint of teeth in his trademark smirk. The one that Atsumu knows Omi does when he scores a particularly satisfying point in the fourth or fifth sets of a match– when he’s too exhilarated to hide it. 

Thinking about seeing that smirk in its entirety, directed at him… Atsumu’s nerves are struck by lightning. So it’s no surprise he offers a jerky shrug he hopes can pass as casual, shoves his hands in his pockets and waggles his eyebrows, drawling, "we shoul' go for a ride."

A muscle in Kiyoomi’s cheek twitches. His eyes darken, and he pins his gaze to Atsumu with an intensity usually reserved for service aces– or Atsumu’s dreams. "Think you can handle it?" 

_No._ But that hasn't stopped Atsumu before. He doubts it ever will. "Can yer bike handle both of us?" His intended bravado crumbles beneath a breathlessness that has him questioning the working capacity of his lungs. If they can't function at zero kilometers an hour, why the hell would that be any different at a hundred, his dick pressed to Omi's ass against leather seats–

Kiyoomi nudges the locker room door open with the tip of his shoe, jerking his thumb around the outside. He loiters there as Atsumu slings his sports bag over his shoulder, blissfully unaware of Atsumu's pulse thudding like a subwoofer as he meets him at the door. 

"Let's find out," Kiyoomi leers– _leers,_ but the crinkling of skin around his eyes suggests he's smiling. 

Atsumu is so, so fucked. 

He tries to not think about all the ways he's fucked– tries, and fails, not-so-miserably, as he follows Kiyoomi out of the building and over to the parking garage. It cannot possibly be comfortable to ride a motorcycle half-hard, and as much as Atsumu might be interested in the answer, today is not the day he wants to find out. 

Kiyoomi rounds the concrete corner ahead of Atsumu a few paces and pauses there, weight on his front foot as he tosses a glance over his shoulder to check if Atsumu is still there– as if he'd run away.

Which is crazy as all fuck, because Atsumu would rather chase Omi down forever than be left behind. 

Atsumu pushes a spring into his step, rounding the corner and nearly stumbles, jaw dropping open like a broken hinge.

He's confronted with a mass of gleaming black metal gilded with red accents. It sits slightly off kilter, weight pressing against a small kickstand, and a dark grey patterned helmet rests on one of the handlebars. Bold font printed along the sleek body reads _Suzuki._ The seat cushions are lined, black leather, forming a slight dip and increasing at an angle towards the back fender. 

"H-how–" The words are stuck in Atsumu's throat, but he swallows, pushing on, "how long have ya had tha'?" He points at the bike, voice shaking– not in fear, but in a hunger to _know._

"This one?" Kiyoomi rests his weight against the leather as he considers. "I traded my Kawasaki in for this about... seven months ago." Shrugging his backpack off one shoulder, he swings it around and opens one of the zippered side pockets, withdrawing a thin box. 

He kneels down beside the bike, opening the box to reveal a metal cylinder the size of a screwdriver and a crescent-shaped piece of metal. He pops the crescent into the cylinder with a soft click, then turns back to Atsumu. “It’s a 2018 SV650,” he says, clearly meaning the bike– but his gaze rakes over Atsumu, analyzing him from head to toe. “Since you’re riding with me, I need to adjust the rear suspension.” 

Atsumu’s brain edits Kiyoomi’s statement to just _you’re riding me,_ and promptly shorts out. He can only watch as Kiyoomi fits the impromptu crescent-tool to something and ratchets it once, twice– taking Atsumu’s heart with it. 

Kiyoomi– having deemed the suspension acceptable– disassembles the tool and places it back in the box, which he stows away. He throws one of his toned legs over the motorcycle and opens the main compartment of his backpack, pulling out a solid black helmet and _oh fuck those are leather gloves._

Atsumu's lungs freeze up again on cue. His ears still work, though, and they hang on as Kiyoomi inches the gloves over his long, graceful fingers– which dip back into the backpack to retrieve _another pair of gloves,_ which he _holds out to Atsumu_ and says, “wear these.” 

_Wear these._

Two words are all Omi needs to single-handedly destroy all of Atsumu's haphazardly crafted fantasies, replacing them with something dangerously real. 

Things that should reasonably frighten Atsumu always end up reeling him in. They bait him, tempting him to see what’s waiting at the end of the line– so he draws in a breath, slides on the gloves, and _asks._ “When did ya start drivin'?”

"I got my license at sixteen," Kiyoomi says casually, without the enthusiasm Atsumu would expect from anyone else– but it's still there, embedded in the way he's entirely at ease with a demon of death between his thighs, gloved fingertips hooked loosely into the base of the helmet dangling at his side.

"Sixteen, eh," Atsumu manages gruffly. _Omi's been a badass, tattooed motorcycle god for how many years withou’ anyone knowin'?_ Desire coils low and hot in his blood, oxygen slowly returning to his lungs. 

"Yeah." Kiyoomi sighs, flicking his free hand absently over the dashboard. "It was a nightmare, at first. Yet, with time…” His gaze returns to Atsumu's, meeting it fearlessly. “I fell in love."

Atsumu's heart hammers in his throat with the thought that Omi might be referring to _him._

"Give me your bag." Kiyoomi holds the main pouch of his backpack open, maw gaping wide enough for Atsumu's black and gold drawstring bag to fit neatly inside. The industrial zipper hisses closed, and Kiyoomi holds the pack out for Atsumu to take. "Put it on and cinch the straps tight.” 

Atsumu swallows. “Righ',” he gulps out, barely hearing his own reply over his pulse echoing in his head. Kiyoomi's backpack is a barely-there weight against his spine– but when Kiyoomi reaches over with his pretty gloved fingers and pulls down on the straps, Atsumu's chest tightens under the brunt of his feelings. 

“Tuck your laces in your shoes,” Kiyoomi instructs, and waits for Atsumu to do just that before he continues. “Don’t put your feet near here–” he nudges his sneaker up, tapping the metal tube extending to the edge of the rear wheel. “Or there. That’s the exhaust. Do not put your feet down at any time, even when we’re stopped– and do not, under any circumstances, grab my arms while I’m driving.”

Atsumu tastes blood in his mouth. “Feet away from tha exhaust, don’t distract ya while ya drive– gotcha.” Determined to a fault, he strides forward, maneuvering his legs over the motorcycle to straddle it behind Kiyoomi. “Anythin’ else I shoul’ know about?”

“One arm around me at all times.” Kiyoomi takes Atsumu’s gloved right hand, gently pulling it forward until his arm rests, snug, against Kiyoomi's waist. “We won’t be able to talk while I drive,” he murmurs. “Tap my left shoulder if you want to stop at any point.”

“What if I want ya ta go faster?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Tap my right shoulder.”

Atsumu blinks. _Alright, he shoulda seen that one comin’._ But he has one more question, which might be the most important one. “How do I let ya know I’m good?” 

Something glints over Kiyoomi’s eyes. If Atsumu wasn’t paying attention, he would’ve missed it– so he listens intently as Kiyoomi opens his mouth to answer. “Tap my thigh.”

_Fuckin’ hell, he’s been given permission ta touch Omi’s thighs._

“‘Kay.” 

So maybe Atsumu’s voice breaks. Maybe he needs help putting on his helmet, his hands too shaky to secure the straps below his jaw. And when Kiyoomi’s leather-gloved fingers whisper against his throat, rose-colored filter over his vision blooming even brighter– maybe he has an aneurysm. 

But that’s nothing compared to the sensation of Kiyoomi’s broad back flush against his chest, the _click_ of the sidestand being pushed up, metal scrape of the key in the ignition– kickstarting the engine along with the adrenaline in his veins. 

Atsumu's feet dangle a few, precious centimeters off the ground. His arms wrap securely around Kiyoomi's waist, and he can feel Kiyoomi's quiet huff of laughter, noise obscured by the revving engine. 

Kiyoomi turns his head to the side, looking at Atsumu through his helmet's face shield. He tilts his chin in towards his neck in the slightest of nods. Then his left foot presses down, his right one comes off the ground, and they're _moving._

The balance shift shouldn't be a surprise, but Atsumu's thighs still clench down around the seat– while the bike is now perfectly upright, he feels off-center as they roll out of the parking garage. 

They come to a soft stop at the street entrance to the MSBY complex. Kiyoomi puts his right foot down for a moment, supporting their combined weight as he scans to their right before swinging them out into the left lane. 

Atsumu has only ever ridden boats, cars, planes, trains– vehicles that have the engine in a secured compartment. Less than thirty seconds into his first motorcycle ride, he's already grasped the appeal of sitting directly above the engine. Hearing it thrum beneath you, rumbling like a dragon– is a fucking power trip.

Kiyoomi drives them in a wide loop around the gym. He sticks to the main roads, sailing past residential areas and conbinis with occasional stops at intersections. The wind burns Atsumu through his jacket, coiling in a chilling sigh against the exposed skin of his neck– breaths stolen right out of his lungs, lost to the sun as it sinks behind the skyscrapers that surround them. 

At their next stop, Atsumu unlocks his right arm from what hopefully isn’t too rigid of a death grip around Kiyoomi’s waist. He drifts it upward, slowly, to prod once at the leather-clad right shoulder in front of him before snaking back around to rest across Kiyoomi’s hips. 

_Goin’ faster s’okay._

Kiyoomi bumps the heel of his left sneaker into the front of Atsumu’s own. The engine purrs louder beneath them, in quiet affirmation that Kiyoomi received Atsumu’s message. And when Kiyoomi peels them away from the pavement, seamlessly weaving them between taxis and buses to accelerate into a higher gear… Atsumu’s pulse speeds up too.

Signs with directions to nearby towns and districts pass by overhead. They aren't going so fast that Atsumu can't read them– he _has_ been reading them– but they tell him nothing about how long he'll be able hold Kiyoomi as they race across the city at– he peers over the leather-clad shoulder in front of him, down at the tiny dashboard– forty-three kilometers an hour.

Nothing about how long he'll fly, tethered to the earth by a two-wheeled death machine driven by his tattooed and unfairly pretty outside hitter. 

Nothing about if this is the closest Atsumu will ever be to Kiyoomi... or if it’s possible that someday, Omi might let him be even closer.

Kiyoomi slows to stall at another intersection, lights in front of them glaring red. His right foot slips off its rest to brace against the pavement, and he raises his left shoulder sharply, pointing off to the right– at the towering concrete of the Shuto Expressway. 

A deep breath crashes through Atsumu’s lungs. _Lef' shoulder for stop, righ' for fast, an' for 'I'm good'..._ Keeping his right arm curled around Kiyoomi's waist, he uncurls his left one, forearm slowly extending out. His hand drifts forward to brush, then rest against the denim-covered muscles of Kiyoomi's thigh. 

Kiyoomi jolts. His whole body shivers at Atsumu’s touch, tremoring with the force of an earthquake– one of the small, everyday ones. Too faint to be felt from a distance... At the epicenter, the collapse is close enough to taste. 

A weight descends upon Atsumu's hand– one that he realizes, with disbelief, is Kiyoomi's own. It hovers there, two layers of leather separating the warmth of their skin– effectively cutting off wherever Atsumu's thought process might've been going– and snaps back to the handlebars, just as the light in front of them glows green in the universal signal to _fucking go._

Which Kiyoomi does. He encourages the dragon to carry them down the road and to the left, following signs for the expressway. They rumble up the access ramp overpass, climbing five stories high before darting through a purple toll gate and bursting onto the roads closest to the skies.

Atsumu peels himself a centimeter away from Kiyoomi's back. The wind whips around him as the city fades to a blur, buildings and skylines encased behind foggy glass, clamor of traffic muted by his helmet and thudding heart– a smile stretches over his face. He unclasps his right hand, moving it against gravity, wind, and reason to tap Kiyoomi's right shoulder. 

_Goin’ faster s’okay._

Atsumu pulls himself forward that one centimeter to rest against Kiyoomi again. He closes the distance in time to feel Kiyoomi’s oblique muscles twitch against his stomach, the barest of movements sending his gut flopping like a fish–

_Baiting_ him. Tempting him to stay for whatever waits for him at the end of the line.

The bike emits a soft clunk beneath them, shifting up a gear as Kiyoomi accelerates. His shoulders stay steady as he flicks on his turn signal, swerving them into the heart-stopping gap between two trucks– and cruising past them into the rightmost lane. The kilometers per hour creeps up to a pulse-shattering seventy-three– and Atsumu learns what it means to truly fly.

Breezes obliterate everything, here– except for a sun named Kiyoomi that leans on the horizon of his chest, burning him with the intensity and allure of campfire embers. Pleasantly warm, soothing, but still far too hot to touch.

And yet here he is, desperate to hold onto Omi for just a little bit longer– despite the fact he might be burned beyond repair, Atsumu will risk everything. 

Planting his right arm firmly around Kiyoomi’s bony hips, he lets his left arm unravel until it’s parallel with the motorcycle. Stretching his gloved fingers forward against airstreams and momentum and all the logic in the universe, Atsumu rests his hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh. 

_M’good._

Kiyoomi shivers in Atsumu’s grasp, rattling in an earthquake much more intense than the last. The speedometer jumps up to eighty-one, the engine's purr blasting into a bone-bruising roar. A clunk is quick to follow– the dragon sheaths a claw, returning to a steady seventy kilometers an hour. 

A good minute passes, maybe two as Kiyoomi guides them further into the evening. Two whole minutes of Atsumu's gloved fingers pressed to the hum of Omi's femoral artery, with no indication to remove them.

Perhaps another thirty seconds slide by before they merge into the leftmost lane, zipping off the exit for a city that Atsumu probably knows but doesn't have time to read the sign for. They veer through another purple toll gate, descending down the ramp story by story– four, three, two, one... until they're at ground level.

Yet Atsumu's heart is still up on the expressway, retracing each and every kilometer he spent flying with Kiyoomi, soaring out of somewhere far beyond his dreams and staggering into reality.

The dragon slows its pace, drawing them to a smooth stop at the light at the end of the exit ramp. Kiyoomi's right sneaker meets the pavement, bracing them once more as they wait to take off again. 

Atsumu stares down at his thumb, which clings to its same spot against Kiyoomi's inner thigh. He figures he should withdraw his fingers before Kiyoomi slices them off with a sharp glare or even sharper words, so he twitches his thumb, aiming to lift his hand away–

Only to be met with a nearly-imperceptible shake of Kiyoomi's head and the smooth weight of his gloved palm over Atsumu’s– driving leather into denim so fiercely Atsumu swears he feels the stitching on his fingertips, through the gloves.

His breathing goes ragged against Kiyoomi's back. It's his turn to shiver as desire spirals from the tip of his thumb up his arm, folding with the air around his windpipe– strangling enough to be lethal. 

It crosses his collarbones to shoot down his other arm, his right index finger digging under the hem of Kiyoomi's jacket to bury itself in the thin cotton of Kiyoomi's shirt. 

Kiyoomi trembles, the muscles in his upper back seizing up against Atsumu's chest. But he pushes away from the pavement, swinging them in a wide, wobbly curve through the intersection.

In the safety of his helmet, Atsumu bites his lip. He tugs it forward with his molars– forceful, but not enough to bleed. _Omi's lettin' me touch 'im. He’s lettin’ me, but maybe tha' invitation's gonna run out at tha end of tha ride. He's reactin' reallllly intensely ta my touch, an’ tha’s hot as fuck, but is he gonna murder me later?_

_Though, if m'gonna die, migh' as well go out guns a-blazin’._

Atsumu, now with classified knowledge of the ink decorating Kiyoomi's skin, lets his mind run wild. It drifts right off the edge of that ocean into the abyss– where _he's_ the one painting pitch-black onto porcelain, smudging charcoal under his touch. His thumb brushes the inner seam of Kiyoomi's jeans, tracing a raven path there. 

So maybe Atsumu's mind wanders a bit too far. Maybe his brush jumps from linear movements to circular strokes, into figure-eights and abstract shapes. Maybe he closes his eyes to live more firmly in his imagination, where the invitation to touch Omi can't be rescinded– and is, therefore, always open.

Maybe Atsumu does, somewhat regrettably, discover how uncomfortable it is to ride a motorcycle half-hard. 

He doesn't have to process the discomfort for long, though. The motorcycle screeches to a halt, the roar of the engine sidling into a silence that echoes in his head. Rippling in a tidal wave, it erases his ability to speak– no apology or thanks, no snarky remark or witty comment comes to the void of his mind. At least his eyes still work, unable to focus on anything other than Kiyoomi, who slides off the bike and unlatches his helmet, pulling it over his head.

The action reveals dark curls that flutter with the wind, ebony eyes, and his mask. Somewhere between wherever they started and here, an earloop came loose, leaving the white rectangle to hang askew over Kiyoomi’s left ear. His flushed cheeks and rosy lips are on display–

A sight that belongs in a museum, locked behind glass– glass that Atsumu is willing to smash, since the gallery’s been closed too fucking long and he's stuck around for ages, waiting to pull off the heist of a lifetime. 

The clasp of the helmet under Atsumu’s neck is ripped away, the protective shield tugged roughly over his head– releasing him with a _thud._ Leather-gloved fingers snarl into his hair, tangling in the fine, blond strands until they skim against his scalp. 

"You fucking _tease,"_ Kiyoomi growls, his other gloved hand grasping at the collar of Atsumu’s jacket and hoisting him off the bike. "You couldn't wait until we got here?"

Atsumu is still too wind-blasted and tongue-tied to form a proper response. But he powers through his speechlessness, scraping together the clever reply of, "I was s’posed ta wait?" 

Kiyoomi's teeth curl into his lip, pearlescent against sakura pink. "I don't understand you," he complains– _complains,_ but doesn’t move– as if he’s waiting for Atsumu to say something, _anything–_

"I don't understand all of ya," Atsumu admits, the lump in his throat itching up a storm as Kiyoomi's gaze narrows in unveiled anger. "But I _wanna."_

Kiyoomi blinks. Something like recognition flickers in his eyes, replacing the irritation there moments ago– and he shrugs, provoking Atsumu to continue. 

"Jus' 'cause I see ya righ' in fron' of me, Omi, doesn' mean I see _all_ of ya." With a shaking hand, he reaches up, brushing gloved fingers through dark curls, parting the curtain to reveal the ink beyond– and sucks in a breath.

The geometric shape he thought was a diamond is _actually_ a stylized design of the Black Jackals mascot– [ a jewel in the shape of a jackal's head](http://www.tattoostime.com/images/412/grey-ink-geometric-tattoo-behind-ear.jpg). Razor-thin lines of ink form a gem sharp enough to stab Atsumu through the ribs. He withdraws his hand, swiping leather to cup Kiyoomi's chin and tilt his head to the other side. 

Brushing aside another dark curtain, he unveils onyx stamped in the form of [ a tiny crown](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/cc/a0/a8/cca0a89e7e3aaf36b9180cbfca3d8976--crown-tattoo-design-crown-tattoos.jpg), composed of three interlocked triangles with a line underneath. Gemstones sit atop each triangle in the form of singular black dots. 

_"Fuck,_ Omi,” he rasps out, delirious from it all, “Ya hide thin's like this from me, an’ then get mad tha’ _I_ couldn’ wait– wait ta what? Fall in love with ya?” Atsumu gulps in air, feeding the fire in his lungs. “Newsflash, asshole!” He fumes at Kiyoomi’s dumbfounded expression– one eyebrow quirked up and dark eyes glaring, which is as dumbfounded as he gets– “I’ve been waitin’ for ya ta gimme a goddamn sign! So don’ gimme tha’ shit!” 

Hazarding a step closer, his nose brushes Kiyoomi’s, mouth curling into a devious smirk as Kiyoomi’s breath hitches. “I think ya understand ‘xactly what ya were askin’,” he drawls, lowering his voice and flicking his tongue over his lips, “when ya wore yer leathers, told me ta touch ya–” He swipes his thumb over denim until it reaches the familiar stitching of the inseam over Kiyoomi’s thigh, breathing in Omi’s choked little sigh– “an’ drove me mad enough ta trust ya.”

A low noise– almost a whine– erupts from Kiyoomi’s throat. He hauls Atsumu to the doorstep with a fist around the backpack strap, slides the key into the door and flings it open. Hurling him over the threshold, he barely pauses to push it closed behind them and slam the deadbolt home, backpack tumbling to the floor. Atsumu’s spine is introduced to fiberglass as Kiyoomi smashes their mouths together. 

Atsumu moans, thoughts descending to a stream of nonsense as mouths slot together in a sloppy, seamless kiss. His hands wander from Kiyoomi's thighs to the stretch of skin between the hem of Kiyoomi's shirt and his jeans. Fingers divide and conquer, hooking through belt loops and digging into skin. He yanks Kiyoomi down as he lurches up– hot steel grinds into the apex of his thighs.

Kiyoomi keens into his mouth, licking over his teeth and tasting of copper, sweat, and gasoline– a dangerously delicious cocktail that turns Atsumu's veins to molten lava. 

Heady on it, he breaks the kiss, tongue gliding a jagged stripe over the exposed skin of Kiyoomi's neck– pausing at his jugular, which peeks over the edge of his collar. The thrumming vein begs to be tasted– so Atsumu _does._

Omi's teeth snag his ear, biting to bruise– Atsumu bites back, fingers adjusting their grip. His left arm snakes around Kiyoomi's waist, using gravity to his advantage as his core flexes up, grinding them further into oblivion– while his right thumb and index finger close over the zipper of the jacket. The metal teeth loosen to expose a colorblock t-shirt in MSBY black and dusty gold, thin cotton straining against Kiyoomi’s pectorals. Smack-dab in the center, printed in large, white font, are the numbers one and three. 

_Thirteen._

That’s... _his_ number. 

_My number on Omi’s chest_ – _markin’ him as mine._

His record-player mind scratches to an abrupt halt, oxygen torching his lungs to shreds. “Thief of my fuckin’ heart,” he gripes, cursing the affection that slips into his tone. His left hand fists into the fabric in the middle of Kiyoomi’s back, wrenching until the leather is off of him. One of Kiyoomi’s gloves comes off, freed by a sleeve– the asymmetry doesn’t bother Atsumu, but irritation spikes through him anyway. 

While his own hands furiously strip each other from the borrowed gloves, Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi’s still-gloved hand to his mouth. Incisors snag into leather and _tug,_ freeing Kiyoomi’s pretty pianist fingers– two of which he pulls under his tongue.

_“H-hahh,”_ Kiyoomi stutters, black eyes blown wide like the moon eclipsing the sun– a darkness filled with boundless stars.

“Pick where we’re gonna fuck.” Atsumu splits Kiyoomi’s fingers apart with his tongue, resting them against his bottom lip. He braces his hands back on Kiyoomi’s waist, lifting him out of their grinding rhythm with considerable effort. “Righ’ here, yer bed, the floor– m’gonna sweep ya off yer feet, Omi-Omi.” 

Kiyoomi’s ribs push against Atsumu’s fingers as he breathes like a man struggling for air on a mountaintop. But he smirks like he still has aces up his sleeves– like _he’ll_ be the one fucking Atsumu up against a wall, table, into floorboards or sheets. 

Kiyoomi backs out of Atsumu’s embrace, saliva trailing after his fingers as they fall from Atsumu’s lips. Slipping off his shoes, he steps up out of the entryway, leaning down to hook a still-dripping finger in the fabric of his left sock behind the heel. Kiyoomi pauses– confirming he has Atsumu’s attention– before bunching the fabric down over his ankle and then off his foot completely.

More obsidian constellations loom before Atsumu’s eyes. His lungs demand a ceasefire as his mind’s image of Kiyoomi before today– stained glass spewing untouchable rainbows– shatters completely, raining countless shards. The fragments glitter, reflecting a plethora of dangerously beautiful possibilities that were previously obscured.

“Shower,” Kiyoomi pants, tone clipped in impatience that Atsumu can’t help but find endearing. _“Then_ the bed.”

_Fuckin’ hell._

Atsumu shucks off his shoes and jacket. He pins Kiyoomi to the wall with his hips, angling his left one forward and thrusting, whirling them so he’s the one with plaster at his back. Kiyoomi responds in kind, flipping them again– his fingers tangle in Atsumu’s hair all the way up to the roots. Lips meet in the midst of their storm as they thunder, step by torturous step to the second floor landing.

The typhoon carries them to the bedroom, kicking the door closed.

The door stays shut for a very long time.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization, or would like to see more (potentially spicy content) of this concept!! ^^ 
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


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